This Mess
by novadiablo
Summary: Sherlock and Lestrade get stuck in Greenland with no contact to the outside world. Hilarity and slash ensues. You are warned. Sherlock/Lestrade pre John.
1. Daytime, Or How They Got Into This Mess

Daytime, Or How They Got Into This Mess In The First Place.

Sherlock/Lestrade

NC-17

At first Lestrade had watched Sherlock stalk around a body with rapt fascination, now he appreciates like he appreciates the ballet, for it truly was an art. The way Sherlock's fingers stroke the body in those gloves, the gentle touches, the way his body circles, those long legs jumping and leaping and crouching at different intervals, the way his neck curves and his hair bounces, and the way his eyes – oh those eyes – saw through everything and everybody in seconds.

Sherlock probably knew of course. Sherlock knew everything. Sherlock knew how long stomach acid took to disintegrate eyeballs and why that woman is cheating of her husband and whether or not detective inspectors have crushes on him, he just knows these things.

So when Sherlock's gaze lingered on his a little longer while Lestrade was pretending to be interested in the intestine splatter on the wall, he knew the game was up. They strode out of the crime scene together after Lestrade had divested of his blue suit, and Sherlock offered to share his cab.

Of course, it just so happened that their cabbie was a very angry minion of Moriarty's and they had to be rescued by Mycroft and shoved into a very small cottage on a cliff on the eastern sea of Greenland and by the time this was all over it was very late at night (or early morning) and both of them sort of fell into a deep sleep on the rickety bed without complaining (a first for Sherlock).

Lestrade woke at about 7pm (Greenland time) and found himself with an uncomfortable morning (evening?) wood and set off to find tea to settle it down. Sherlock joined him not long afterwards and the silence between them was deafening. Sherlock was fidgety, Lestrade had no conveniently placed body bits and they ended up just staring, silently daring the other to speak. Sherlock cracked first, surprisingly, or maybe not, he was a bit impatient.

"I know you're in love with me."

Lestrade spluttered out his tea at this and tried to sort himself out for a while after this before almost yelling, "You've got to be kidding, mate!"

It sounded thunderous in the quiet of the cottage and Sherlock gave him a reproachful look.

But really! Love? Maybe a strong kinship and a rather large amount of sexual attraction, but love? Pshhht.

"I also know you like dirty talk while rutting against… pretty much anything, that your wife found your need for urination immediately after sex thoroughly irritating and unnecessary – she's right, by the way, and that she wouldn't engage in anal sex with you because you're too well-endowed. Your last sexual encounter was a blowjob from a glory hole, you used to wear flannelettes, dye your hair black, put on makeup and go to gay bars in your first years on the force and your favourite spread is cream cheese." Sherlock rattled off facts like he was at a crime scene and Lestrade sipped at his tea.

"Sherlock," he began in a voice one might use to explain to a child that his mother had died, "just because you can observe and process facts doesn't mean you can use them to deduce a person's emotions. They are not the same thing, because facts are logical and solid, and emotions are illogical and wispy," he explained carefully, but Sherlock just looked him hard in the eye.

"I know," he said sourly, "that's the exact reason why I rid myself of them. However I can still recognise them in others."

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as he stood up, "you can't choose to be a sociopath. You either are or you aren't."

"Wrong!" Sherlock called as Lestrade was tipping his tea down the drain. Instead of replying, he stepped into the bathroom for a shower, effectively ending the conversation.

They were sitting at the table consuming (well, Lestrade was consuming) cream cheese on toast when Sherlock phone rang out. He spoke a few quick words while Lestrade realised that his phone hadn't rung all day. Sherlock, as if reading his mind, explained.

"Mycroft has requested no calls be made by Scotland Yard to you for the next week, which is about how long it will take for him to locate Moriarty."

"We're going to be here for a week?" Lestrade exclaimed weakly. "I'll be right back, going to find a length of rope."

Sherlock of course didn't get the reference and Lestrade rolled his eyes as he threw his serviette in the bin.

It was going to be a long week.


	2. Night One, Or 'Sherlock, Please Never

Night One, Or 'Sherlock, Please Never Procreate.'

A/N: This is set before Sherlock meets John, because S/J is my OTP, but if I pretend John doesn't exist then it's all good. Also, I kind of see 'Lestrade' as his first name, so I use it as much as I'd use 'Sherlock'.

Sherlock/Lestrade

NC-17

Even though Lestrade had woken up only hours ago, his exhausted body decided it was beddy time. He raided the bedside table on his side – what! He, Lestrade, did not have a side, and certainly not in a bed he was forced to share with Sherlock Holmes – to see what treasures he could find. Toothbrush, toothpaste, underwear (oh good), a bible, a Koran, a USB, a water bottle, a belt, a chessboard, condoms and lubricant, a camera, a flashlight, a notepad, three different colour pencils, five Jack Collins books and rose petals. How… unusual.

Lestrade changed into the pyjamas provided (silk, deep maroon) and brushed his teeth, discovering alcohol wash, a pack of four-blade razor's, cough medicine and a month's supply of the pill along the way.

As he strode out to the tiny living room to grab a drink of milk he saw Sherlock sitting in the armchair, staring at the floor with his hands in prayer position. He looked up at Lestrade as he walked in and sat down.

"Sherlock," Lestrade began, and Sherlock began staring intently, and he decided not to say what he was going to say. "Next time you speak to Mycroft, can you ask him to call Tamara and tell her I won't be able to take Kate this weekend, then?"

Sherlock looked at him in confusion briefly before realisation struck and he nodded. Just as Lestrade was pushing himself off the couch, Sherlock said, "I would like some children."

Lestrade, struck dumb, fell back onto the couch.

"Really?" he exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded. "Because the clever ones I could teach deduction methods and the stupid ones would be brilliant for experiments!" He said with pure earnest.

Lestrade let out a loud 'Hah!" before letting head his head fall into his hands. "Sherlock, please never procreate."

Sherlock's face fell. "Why on earth not?"

"Because, Sherlock, I'm pretty sure experimenting on children breaks about three hundred laws, and the world really does not need more than one of you!"

However, Lestrade felt his point had not been made when Sherlock took that last part as a compliment.

"Well, I'm going to bed," Lestrade said some time later, after Sherlock had explained, in explicit detail, his latest experiment about quail urine and black and white photographs and Lestrade had attempted to explain the latest Doctor Who episode to him: "Once you turn away from them, you completely forget about them." "But how can anybody be so _stupid_?"

Sherlock nodded and stood up, "I think I might too."

Obviously it was too boring here for Sherlock to remain conscious. When he went to change into his pyjamas, Lestrade snuggled under the covers of the bed and turned out his light. Sherlock emerged with his wrists and ankles sticking out of his pyjamas and shuffled in next to him. Lestrade drifted off seconds later.

_Sherlock's leg was between his thighs, thrusting up gently, rolling his sack over his thigh. Precome was leaking onto Lestrade's silk pyjamas and Sherlock's arms were around him, lying flush against his back. His erection was smooshed between them, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, he was panting heavily into Lestrade's ear. He could feel Sherlock cold hands splayed on his hips and the dull thrust of Sherlock's hips. Pushing himself up on one elbow, Sherlock leaned over him and opened his mouth to speak. However, instead of hearing the customary 'I love you,' Lestrade found his face showered in quail urine._

Sherlock's leg was, indeed, between his thighs when Lestrade woke with a start, however there was no thrusting involved. Somehow, while sleeping, Sherlock had managed to wrap his arms around Lestrade and was now secreting (welcome) warmth on Lestrade back. Lestrade glanced at the digital clock (kitchen pantry, batteries in the office) and saw that it was only 2:45am. He snuggled back into Sherlock and fell back to sleep.


	3. Night Two, Or Sherlock Goes StirCrazy

Night Two, Or Sherlock Goes Stir-Crazy And Lestrade Introduces Him To Wii.  
>AN: This is up tonight at the request of Atlin Merrick, who is my favourite fanfiction writer, in the hopes that she will deliver some amazing smut as soon as possible.

The day had been a boring one. Lestrade woke up late with an absence of warmth and then literally threw himself out of bed and out into the lounge room as he realised he hadn't taken the magazine out of his gun that night. Sure enough, lo and behold, Sherlock was aiming at random pottery and pretending to shoot them with a 'peow!' noise. He wasn't shooting yet, which was always, _always_ a good thing. Lestrade took the gun out of his hand, which Sherlock replaced with an outstretching finger, clutching his elbow and using his thumb as a sight. He divested the gun of its magazine and handed it back to Sherlock, hoping it would keep him busy long enough for him to have a quick shower.

Unfortunately it didn't. About two and a half minutes in, as Lestrade was scrubbing his armpits with watermelon scented body wash, Sherlock walked into the bathroom. Lestrade remained silent, hoping Sherlock would find what he was looking for and piss off. It wasn't to be.  
>"You never shower before breakfast." Sherlock stated, and Lestrade closed his eyes and put his head under the water, hoping to block out whatever personal deduction Sherlock was going to perform.<p>

"You never shower before breakfast, which means that you're avoiding me."

"No," Lestrade replied, "I was avoiding exactly this."

"Ah, but you didn't know I would do this."

"Sherlock, with you one must prepare for the worst. I was simply preparing, okay?"

Sherlock remained in the bathroom for a while after that, but after a few almost hesitant steps, Lestrade was alone.

When Lestrade came out, dressed in jeans and a horrific blue and yellow check button down that Sherlock found in a bag full of supplies on their doorstep, the man himself was lying on the lounge, hands in prayer position, his pyjama shirt riding up a little. Lestrade checked the clock. It was midday.

"Showers free," he mumbled to Sherlock before wandering into the kitchen to make himself toast again.

The rest of the day was boring as hell, however a very nice temperature for sitting by the fire with consulting detective roasting marshmallows (pantry) and actually having semi-normal conversations. Until about 4pm, when it was getting dark and Sherlock was getting unbelievably bored.

Lestrade, to escape the trash that would soon come out of his mouth, began to wander around the house, before he nearly tripped over something solid in the supplies bag.

He leant down to pick it up, and he thanked Mycroft for his ingenuity.

"Sherlock, come and playing Wii!"

Sherlock rounded the corner holding a snow glob and horrified look. "A _what_?" he spat, disgusted.

"It's a gaming console, and it's quite fun."

And that's how it began, with Lestrade putting on Just Dance and Sherlock getting competitive. They had both broken a sweat in the low temperatures and Lestrade was thirty points ahead on Louie Louie by Iggy Pop and Sherlock was throwing him dirty looks and growling. They had both divested of their shirt halfway through, because they were stuck in a house and completely insane.

It was when Sherlock missed a step that he decided he was not above cheating. So he dropped the Wiimote and grabbed Lestrade by the hips, pinned him to the wall and shoved their mouths together. It wasn't a kiss, per se, however it backfired slightly on Sherlock in two ways: one, he realised that his leg was pressed against Lestrade cock and got harder quicker than a thirteen year old walking backstage on a runway show, and two, Lestrade, instead of panicking and completely freezing, laughed and pushed him off.

"You are _such_ a sore loser."

"This game is flawed," Sherlock squeaked, and then ran to the bedroom.

Lestrade followed, and Sherlock kept his back to him until he walked into the bathroom.

Sherlock fell into bed a pretended to be asleep, but he didn't sleep a wink.

He was awake all night… thinking.


End file.
